Battles And Scars
by Amaranthe Athenais
Summary: It's set in the pre-series to the show. It was a late night in the Holy Land, like many other nights they spent near the walls of besieged Acre. It was a night when blood and death stalked in the darkness. It was a usual night for Robin of Locksley and his friends.


_This is a short story about Robin Hood and Much set in the pre-series._

_Undoubtedly and unfortunately, I don't own any characters and the show. In addition, several characters are introduced by myself._

_Hope you will enjoy the story._

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><p><strong>Battles And Scars<strong>

It was a late night in the Holy Land. The night sky was very beautiful and clear in the desert, lighter and darker in different parts of the dark canvas. The pale-green moonlight of Acre shed its weird luster over the dark landscape, and gave an air of fabulous mystery to the surroundings.

Robin of Locksley, the Earl of Huntington and the Captain of King Richard's Private Guard, wasn't sleeping. Robin and his friends spent an evening together in Robin's tent, talking about the siege of Acre and speculating when they would finally capture the city.

This evening, they were having a small feast, enjoying friendly company and a rare moment of peace. Such moments were the healing force for the battle-hardened Crusaders, which was driving out the darkness and dissolving its power over them, bringing them to a place of temporary peace and calm.

On the table in the middle of the tent lay a partially eaten small feast: a roasted pheasant, various cheeses and a half empty bottle of wine; the King didn't approve of excessive drinking, but he also didn't protest if his men indulged themselves in the pleasantries of life from time to time.

Sir Edmund of Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex and Robin's second-in-command, thought that they would be able to capture the city in several months. Sir Robert de Beaumont, the Earl of Leicester and the Captain of the Second Guard, doubted Edmund's words, saying that the siege machines broke holes into the walls of Acre many times, but Saladin's army attacked the city after every breach, giving the garrison of Acre a chance to repair the damage. Sir Thomas Leighton of Stretton was more skeptical, stating that they would probably capture Acre in the coming year.

Much, Robin's ever-loyal manservant, sat on the edge of his narrow bunk, looking down at a large platter of goose and stew, which he held in his arms. His stomach rumbled, and he smiled at the sight of delicious food. As he ate, he watched Robin drink wine with small gulps, enjoying its taste. He wasn't listening to the talk about the war. Every time he heard something about the capture of Acre, he was overcome by tremendous melancholy. He hated Acre and the Holy Land, and he began to believe that they would never take the damned city and would never come back home, to Locksley.

Suddenly, Robin stiffened and then frowned, peering out into the semidarkness. "What is it?" He placed a goblet on the table. His frown intensified, his expression worried. "I heard the clash of metal."

Much shrugged. "Maybe fighting?"

There was a hissing clash of metal upon metal somewhere in a distance. Swords clashed, and people screamed. Metallic sound was becoming louder and louder, and cries of agony came from outside the tent, joined now by shouts of alarm.

"Saracen attack! Saracens in the camp!" one of the King's guards yelled.

"The attack on the camp!" another guard warned.

"Bloody hell," Robin cursed.

"Damn these Saracens," Edmund cursed.

"Excellent end of the evening, but nothing unusual," Thomas growled.

"The King!" Robin immediately sprang to his feet and grabbed his bow, a bundle of arrows, and his scimitar. "Much, Edmund, and Thomas, you will go with me to King Richard's tent."

Robert and Robin shared brief glances, silently coordinating the course of action.

"My men and I will protect the King's tent from the back and will surround the area," Leicester barked; the he stormed out of the tent.

In a moment, Robin rushed to the exit with Much, Edmund, and Thomas behind him. Robin and his friends ran towards the King's tent. They heard the rumble of running and marching feet, and then wave of noise burst forth from the darkness – the ululating scream of "_Allah! Allah! Allah!_"

"Everyone out of the tents! Out! Out!" Robin screamed over and over again.

They caught glimpses of the Saracens running into the tents of the sleeping Crusaders. They heard the dying cries of their own men killed in their sleep on their makeshift beds. Still sleepy, many guards grabbed their weapons and ran outside their tents, catching themselves into the dark chaos around and immediately starting to fight; many of them even didn't wear a chainmail, having no time to dress it.

"Out! Out!" Robin glared frantically around as he ran. "Get out of the tents!"

They headed to the King's tent located in the center of the camp. The noise grew louder and louder, yet still they didn't see all the intruders. There was a bloody massacre near King Richard's tent: many Saracens were involved in the fierce swordfight with much fewer King's guards, and more battle cries were heard in a distance, signaling that there were many more enemies around. The Crusader camp was attacked by a large army of the Saracen mercenaries.

"Hurry! The King's tent! Now!" Robin commanded, taking several arrows from Much's arms.

Robin ran faster and faster, his heart pounding murderously in his chest, nearly breathless with anxiety and rage that scalded through him. He had no time to stop near the outnumbered Crusaders fighting near the King's tent. The King's life was his first priority.

"Edmund, join Leicester from the back of the King's tent!" Robin ordered, his sharp, clear gaze fixing at the corpses of the dead guards near the King's tent. "Hurry! The King's tent!"

Robin stormed inside the King's tent, followed by Much. The picture before their eyes was unbelievable and spine-chilling: the weaponless King of England stood rooted near his bed, and one assassin was holding the blade near the King's throat. King Richard didn't look frightened and panic-stricken at all in the eyes of death. His expression was confident and cold.

The young Captain knelt down and hastily drew his bow; Thomas and Much crouched behind him.

Robin took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart, and then he targeted the blade at the King's throat, pulled back his bow cord a couple of inches to his ear and fired an arrow. It flew straight and true at the last minute before the Saracen was about to slice Richard's throat. The sword dropped to the ground, and Richard ducked, his eyes scanning the tent and briefly locking with Robin's.

King Richard chuckled. "Well done, Robin. Thank you."

"Always welcome, sire," Robin replied with a wide grin.

Still weaponless, King Richard took a step back from one of the assassins who lunged at him with a diagonal blow. At the same time, Robin's arrow struck the foe at the base of his throat, flinging him down to the ground with gouts of blood spurting from his mouth. Richard cast a brief glance of gratitude at Robin, and then he swiftly began to move away towards the table where his sword lay on.

At Robin's order, Much and Thomas drew their swords and charged into the battle, flying at the speed of velocity towards the King who already had his sword in his arms and was simultaneously fighting with two assassins. Six more Saracen assassins forced entry from the back side of the King's tent, but they were attacked by the Earl of Leicester and several other Crusaders.

Robin nocked an arrow and then two more into the backs of the two assassins who rushed after King Richard. Robin released another arrow, for he had to let the King reach his weapons and kill the Saracens who tried to surround the lion. The next wave of arrows dropped like killing hail, the steel points of the arrows slamming the assassins' necks and hearts.

King Richard finished off two Saracens, only to be attacked by another assassin. He crushed an overhead blow at his enemy, skewing his face and the plunging his sword through his skull. Then turned around and swung his sword at the second dark-skinned man. He smiled with a satisfied smile at the corpses near him, but all at once he was attacked by the two more enemies.

"Protect the King!" Robin's voice rang in the air. "Protect the King!"

His eyes fixed on the King, Robin shouted orders to form a circle around the King to the guards, who appeared in the entrance with bloodied swords in their arms. In a moment, the King was surrounded by the King's men who shielded their liege from the few assassins who still remained in the tent.

As soon as the battle inside the King's tent was over, Robin ordered several guards to stay in the royal tent and protect the King while he and the others would be fighting with the Saracens outside.

The battle with the Saracens was a sheer butchering, cruel and insane, not a small Saracen raid, but an organized large raid of the small Saracen army on the camp. Each party was mercilessly butchering the enemies, slicing into faces, hands, chests, and backs with their swords.

"Form the double line of protection around the King's tent!" Robin ordered to his second-in-command, who nodded at him; he knew that he had to fight in the battle, but he had to ensure the King's safety.

Robin observed many more Saracens dismounting. The Crusaders were swiftly surrounded by the sea of Saracens, who appeared as if from nowhere and leapt from their horses to charge in a solid block towards the Christians. Many other Crusaders were only starting fighting, but many Saracens were also arriving to the camp. Soon the King's men were squeezed even more tightly in the center of the cam. Blood and death stalked in the fire-splashed darkness.

The evening air was thick with chill when they spotted the flares lighting the battlefield above the camp. All at once, something rolled over inside Robin's heart, his blood boiled, and he was almost crazed with bloodlust and cruelty and the urge to shed human blood. The Saracens had almost killed King Richard, and he felt he had to deal with all the enemies who could have murdered his liege.

Robin drew his scimitar and rushed into the battle like a madman, roaring the battle cry "_Deus vult!"._ Robin's cry was repeated by the countless voices of the King's men.

The Captain of the Private Guard faded away like a shadow, swiftly as a flash of light and noiselessly as a panther. Much, Edmund, and Thomas had to strain their eyesight before they caught a glimpse of Robin's scimitar flashing silver in the darkness.

From the corner of his eye, Robin noticed the Earl of Leicester leading his men into the battle. Leicester shouted commands in Norman-French to surround the area of the Crusader camp and form the third thick protective line around the King's tent, so that no assassin could find a loophole and, using chaos of the battle, try to assassinate the King and his protectors who waited inside.

Moving swiftly and swinging his sword at the assassins, Robin fought with his enemies in the crowd of dark-skinned warriors. He didn't care whom he would kill and that he himself could die today, for he would die for King Richard and for England – an honorable death of a knight.

Concentrating intently on wasting no time on thinking, even to glance around and look out, Robin charged out and forward into the teeth of the enemies, who, surprised by his fierce assaults, buckled and recoiled from him, were obviously unprepared for anything of the kind. His blows were deadly and the Saracens fell one by one as his sword slashed and sliced through them.

Much, Thomas, and Edmund, slowly made their way to where the heart of the battle was, surrounding Robin from various sides. By force of habit, Much stood back-to-back with Robin, protecting his best friend's back and killing anyone who dared to attack Robin; his own hand was injured and he was in slight pain, but he neglected it and fought like a possessed man, killing all dark-skinned opponents his sword found. Thomas was fighting at Robin's right side, swinging his sword at several assassins simultaneously and expertly slicing them deeply into their bodies. Edmund stood at Robin's left, aggressively attacking the Saracen and defending himself and his friends.

At the height of the battle, Much killed and killed everyone who could have attacked Robin, protecting his master and himself, thinking that he was in natural hell. He hated massacres and slaughter. He hated the Holy Land, but he fight there alongside the King and Robin because he had to protect Robin from all dangers. He saw it his mission to be always at Robin's side and save his life if necessary. He was ready to give his own life to let Robin live.

Much often caught glimpses of Robin, Thomas and Edmund in the fierce fight. Each of them killed and killed, professionally, mercilessly, and indifferently to the cries of dying and injured men around them. The small smiles of Edmund and Thomas betrayed their true feelings – that they were enjoying bloodshed. Flatness and sharp focus in their blank gazes shocked him to the core, for it was the first time when he saw only cruel and trained soldiers in them, without a soul and a heart.

But it was not Thomas or any other Crusader who had always impressed Much in any battle they fought during the years they had spent in the Holy Land. It was his master, his beloved Robin.

Much knew that Robin could kill easily, cutting life out of an enemy and immediately turning to another enemy. He knew that Robin was like the Greek God Ares, the God of war, with a sword, his fighting style and blows being unspeakably beautiful, extremely complicated, immensely adroit, and very unique. And despite his knowledge, Much was still impressed when he watched Robin in the battle.

Much had always envied Robin's outstanding fighting skills with a bow and a sword. He had always wanted to be like Robin and fight as good as Robin could, but it was so only until they came to the Holy Land and when he had seen what Robin could do in the battlefield despite all infamous humanity. At times, Robin's fighting skills and Robin himself frightened Much.

In this massacre, Much was both impressed and frightened, as usual. As he fought at Robin's side, he watched his master mercilessly killing his enemies in startled awe. At the very instance when Robin's scimitar penetrated his enemy's flesh and another life was fading away, Robin's gaze was absolutely blank and seemed to be somewhat unearthly, and a tiny smile – painful or satisfied, but more likely ambivalent – played in the corners of his mouth.

_Much was frightened of Robin most of all when he caught a glimpse of Robin's expression during the battle – the expression was the clearheaded, unearthly detachment from the world when Robin killed, killed, and killed like a demon-possessed man._ He changed from a peacemaker into a professional soldier and a brutal killer, only displaying his darkly beautiful fighting style and killing. In such moments, Robin had no feelings, no heart, no soul, and even no understanding of reality. There were no inner fire and no teasing glint in them, as he usually had all the time.

After the battle was over, the King assembled the men and made a long speech about the massacre in the camp. It was decided that they would move the Crusader camp tomorrow because the area was overwhelmed by the bodies of dead Crusaders and the Saracens. The King praised Robin and thanked him for the salvation of his life, giving him another medal for bravery and valor in the battle. Then Robin ordered to bury the corpses of the fallen warriors in the unmarked common graves in the desert and retired to his tent, with Much trailing behind his master step by step.

It was hard to fall asleep on that night, but exhaustion swiftly overpowered Robin. The fingers of sleep crept over Robin, and the boundaries of the world dissolved: the things he saw in his dreams and the things that happened outside mingled freely together in his conscience.

Robin dreamt of himself in the image of the Crusader slaughtering the Saracens with a wry grin on his face. The pictures in his dreams were dreadful. He saw rivers of blood flowing on the yellow sand turning crimson, and like rain in a storm, spilling out of the bodies of his enemies. The visions of fierce fights, bloody massacres, crimson sand, and mutilated bodies resurfaced in his tired mind, and he dreamt of himself being surrounded by the endless crowds of the dark-skinned infidels.

The ferocity of the nightmare increased, and Robin shuddered, tossing his head on the soft pillows. In his dreams, blood blossomed wherever Robin passed as he dispatched Saracens one after another, fighting with a wild mixture of savage brutality, lethal proficiency, and dark grace. Blood and death were everywhere, and he could almost imagine himself standing waist-deep in the crimson waters.

Robin awoke with a loud, almost wild scream. He sat in the darkness, staring into the emptiness of his tent. Much also awoke and rushed to his master.

"Master, how are you?" Much asked worriedly as he approached Robin's bed.

Robin managed a weak smile. "And how can I feel after such… terrible bloodshed?"

The young Captain closed his eyes, though it made no difference. Despair squeezed him so tight that his body longed to empty itself: the wine from his stomach, the tears from his eyes, and even the blood from his veins. Only Much's presence in the tent kept him from complete emotional collapse.

"Master, I cannot sleep at all," Much confessed.

Robin smiled. "Take a seat there," he said, showing on the chair near the bed.

"It was a horrible and bloody massacre," Much said as he settled comfortably in the chair.

Robin's expression was impassive, but his eyes full of vulnerability and pain. "Much, I know that we were trying to defend our King, and we had to kill so many people today." He paused for an instance. "And yet… all this bloodshed is for nothing."

"Why, Master? We protected the King."

"The Holy Land belongs to Christians, Jews, and Saracens – it doesn't belong only to us," Robin said firmly. "And the more we fight here, the more I regret coming to the Holy Land."

"Master, I want to go home," Much complained.

Robin stared at Much, his eyes bright with unshed tears and his expression no longer so composed. "You cannot imagine how much I want to go home."

Robin swallowed hard. His eyes were now shimmering with tears of pain and guilt, which he had been holding in check with all the restraint which he had been capable of mastering only a moment ago.

"I was naïve to think that I would achieve glory if I fight for the King," Robin uttered in a hollow voice, looking at Much, tears trickling down his pale cheeks. "There is no glory on the battlefield."

"Master, don't be so frustrated."

"I have to be frustrated, Much. It was I who wanted to fight for our King in the Holy Land. You only followed me – I dragged you into this hell," Robin said in a weak voice.

"You know I would have always followed you everywhere."

"I know, Much, I know." Tears glistened in Robin's eyes as he stared at Much, his heart filled with so much grief and pain he thought it might burst. "We have to kill the infidels who attack us at Saladin's order; they are our enemies. But I cannot understand why there is… always bloodshed… everywhere." His was voice shaking with emotions. "Why do people always fight and spill blood?"

There were tears in Much's eyes, too. He looked at his master and realized in that moment how very much vulnerable and weak Robin felt. He knew that Robin had been a sensitive man with a tender heart, but he had a few chances to see Robin's naked soul who had always preferred to hide his true emotions from everyone and from the whole world.

"Master, don't try to understand the world. You will end up with a broken heart."

"Much, I don't understand many things, and it… hurts that I am so lost," Robin murmured.

Much squeezed his master's hand. "Don't blame yourself for taking so many lives today."

"I would give up my own life to save King Richard. I would fight to defend my King and England and all of you whenever I must do that," Robin retorted without hesitation.

"You have always been very brave, Master."

Robin sucked in his breath, and fresh tears stung his eyes. "But I am… so tired of fighting. I hate death and bloodshed. Will I ever be able to live without death around me?"

Robin stiffened. A chocked sob tumbled from his lips. Then he felt Much reaching out for him, pulling him close in an embrace, burying his face into his shoulder. Robin didn't mind that he was now in the tight embrace of his manservant, for he needed some comfort of the man who understood him.

"Shhh, Master. It will be alright," Much whispered to the distraught master.

"I am… so tired." Robin wrapped his arms around Much's back, clinging to him and sobbing.

"Shhh," Much murmured, hugging Robin with one hand, his other hand tenderly stroking the gorgeous mane of sandy-colored hair. "In the morning, you will feel better. You will forget this night – it will be only like one of many bloody battles we survived through in these lands."

Robin sobbed like a child for a long time, and his ever-loyal Much was always at his side. Tomorrow a new day would come, and they would continue fighting for the capture of Acre at the pointless war, both dreaming to survive and go back home. But Robin and Much were not only a master and his loyal manservant – they were brothers-in-arms, a Captain and his loyal soldier, and they were more than brothers. Nothing else mattered at that moment.

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><p><em>I hope that you liked this story. <em>

_This is oneshot I wrote some time ago, using some other things I wrote about Robin. I have always been interested in Robin's life during the crusades, and I like stories about Robin in the Holy Land. _

_We saw the glimpse of dark Robin. I have always thought that on the show Robin was fighting with the undercurrent darkness which had always been present in his heart but which he buried deeply inside himself and usually controlled very well. Robin had the natural instincts of a killer, for he was deadly with a sword and a bow, he fought in the Holy Land and he killed many Saracens, but he still managed to control the darkness in himself when he was in Nottingham. I respect Robin for his self-restraint and his ability to suppress his killing instincts when it was so easy for him to kill._

_Thomas Leighton of Stretton is Carter's brother; he is not dead yet._ _Edmund of Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex, is a fictional character. Robert de Beaumont, the Earl of Leicester, is a real historical personality, one of King Richard's favorites on the Third Crusade._

_Thank you for reading his story. I would be very grateful for reviews._


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